“A wooded winter trail awaits, no footprints pressed upon the snow – a path I dared not once to take but now – I must go.”

Lavender lullabies whispered into night skies, remnants of galaxies cradled closely, as you sleep sweetly, time slips away and so do I.

When winter withers – my bones begin to thaw, my lungs crackle as they expand, and the blood in my veins start to flow and I awaken from hibernation – hungry for happiness and eager to let go.

My mind is not my own. I don’t recognize her when I am alone.

I know I haven’t told you, but I also know, that you’ve felt my love.

I lace barbed wire around my heart, constrict it – pull tight, maybe the pain will make it feel alive, and I can pretend it didn’t already die.

Expanding like the universe, I discovered galaxies within. To break glass ceilings: Breath in trust, exhale doubt-beckon bravery.

Those closest to me. Didn’t know the true state of my mentality.

Time aches- my words break as if they’re the wings of a captured butterfly as if they’re the seconds that keep ticking by as if they’re embers that refuse to ignite.

Misty morning welcomes me as I wander through the trees – calm amidst the chaos of distant memories.

Lost journals are steps back home, like the mending of broken bones, like scars that act as patches to my soul, like the measurement marks on my mother’s wall that show just how much I’ve grown.

Fireside and free, tangled up in curiosity, dripping in holy honesty, drawing in pure ecstasy, exploring possibilities – a cabin in the woods.

I simply cannot hold onto hope, it aches like possibilities never reached, I’m bubbling over with grief – this chaos has caused so much loss and fatigue.

And the world seems just a little bit warmer, and the sun shines slightly brighter than it used to, and the days pass differently than before, and time is no longer stuck in a loop.

I learned all about love from people that didn’t know how to love me.

What do you do, when all the loves you’ve ever known have only been paper moons?

I’m half agony, half hope – like I’m a freshly cut bone, like the last stone that was held – then not thrown, like a garden where inspiration roots but never grows.

I await your sentence with less fear than you pass it. The time will come when all will see what I see.

Responsibility is what awaits outside the Eden of Creativity.

I pray you, magnificent Sir, do not trouble yourself to return to us, but await our coming to you.

We await the successsive births in the soul of the child. We give all possible material, that nothing may lack to the groping soul, and then we watch for the perfect faculty to come, safeguarding the child from interruption so that it may carry its efforts through.

Certain though I am – and ever more certain – that I must press on in life as though Christ awaited me at the term of the universe, at the same time I feel no special assurance of the existence of Christ. Believing is not seeing. As much as anyone, I imagine, I walk in the shadows of faith.

The old must always make way for the new, and one thing must be built out of the ruins of another. There is no murky pit of hell awaiting anyone.

They… who await. No gifts from Chance, have conquered Fate.

Before making a decision, ask inside for guidance. Be patient and await an answer. Act only when you feel calm and certain.